


Agoraphobia

by Jacque_le_Prince



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Allegory, Gen, Metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27342904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jacque_le_Prince/pseuds/Jacque_le_Prince
Summary: This was written for my summer college course in fiction writing. It was partially inspired by the events that had happened during the time (Pride Fall and the spike in police brutality).
Relationships: clara/narrator





	Agoraphobia

It started when I broke my glasses.

Crack. Right on the hardwood floor after my clumsy elbow knocked them over while my hand searched for a pen on my desk. If the lens had just popped out of the frame, I would have no problem popping it back in and moving on, but this was a full blown spider web of cracks. I learned that term when I heard about the guy who broke the window at the shoe store around the corner.

Usually, I would take this as an opportunity to adopt a different hobby other than endlessly scrolling through social media posts, but since my job needed a good pair of eyes to read and type, I had a much more serious problem on my hands.

“It’s not so bad,” I said as I read the fuzzy letters on the screen, “Turning down the brightness helps with the glare. And besides, I can just zoom in on all of my web pages.”

“Just come outside,” Clara’s voice urged through the speakers, “I mean, eventually you’re going to have to leave that apartment. Maybe this is a sign to take that first step.”

I was glad I left my web camera off so that Clara couldn’t see the face I was making. I’m sure it was a decent mixture of irritation and disgust, with a dash of “ _ Are you kidding me? _ ” thrown in somewhere.

My colleagues and other internet peers knew me as Rapunzel, because I haven’t left my apartment in years. Though, I still think Elsa would be a more accurate comparison since she was the only princess to willingly isolate herself. Just like me, Elsa’s greatest anxiety came from anyone breaking the threshold of her door, even if it was herself.

Regardless, it didn’t matter what people called me, as long as the name they chose didn’t draw attention to the melanin those mosquitos seemed so agitated by.

“I hear the mosquitos attack mainly because they’re agitated by fast movements and vehicles, not melanin,” Clara tried to reassure me, “So try walking to the eyeglass store instead of driving there, and don’t make sudden movements when you see one. Remember that they’re more scared of you than you are of them.”

I bit back a scoff, not wanting to set anything off with a snide remark. I knew Clara was just trying to comfort me, but she wasn’t the prime upset for those mosquitos.

There’s been heavy debates over where the Bullet Mosquitos came from, but two things were known for sure. The first was that their bites were as hot and painful as a searing bullet, and they left wounds just as lethal as a 9mm. The second was that the scent of melanin was a chemical trigger for them to attack. Though, of course, many people liked to doubt and twist that second fact into something less targeted.

I had never seen one up close but I have seen the faces of their victims flashed on the news, and even saw videos of attacks on the shadier parts of the internet. It was disturbing to see a creature that looked like a gentle hummingbird drive its point deep into the chest of an unassuming teenage boy. Seeing that teenage boy writhe on the dirty concrete and call out for Jesus and his mother while the cameraman stayed distant was also disturbing.

“And what if I run into some guy on the street who’s got the XY virus?” I posed, hoping that would put more concern into Clara.

I could hear her sigh through her nose before saying, “Okay, yeah, but it’s daytime now. I doubt anyone infected would try to snag you while you’re walking through a well-lit neighborhood. Besides, I hear they’re less aggressive with cis people.”

“True,” I said, fully aware of how much more violent people infected with the XY virus are towards trans folks. I’ve even seen videos of tomboys or feminine guys catch the bone-crushing grasp of an infected person. Seeing the fear in those people’s eyes just seconds before they get mutilated into an unrecognizable pile of flesh always made me want to vomit, especially knowing I was susceptible to such an attack.

I looked out of my window and down at the streets, wondering how those tiny dots of people could find the courage to roam the streets.

People infected with the XY virus weren’t just violent towards transgender people; they were violent to women and non-heterosexual people. There was a reason that it was called the XY virus. Back in the years of Adam and Eve, people had an extra hormone to improve the chances of bearing children. That hormone gave humans the animalistic ability to sense the hormonal difference between that of a straight, cis-gendered person and that of a transgender or gay person. And like animals, they would bear their fangs and attack until there was nothing left but scraps.

If my years in science class taught me anything, this should have counted as a deformity like polydactyly, but scientists declared it a virus because it can be spread from person to person. What scientists don’t know is why it mainly infects men and causes them to mainly attack women.

“Yeah? Well, I’m still a woman,” I said, “And no amount of baggy clothes or winter layers can hide these curves. Next thing you know, I’ll be a pile of ground beef for that blonde news anchor to talk over.”

“That’s not a guarantee!” Clara argued, “Look, I’m a transwoman and you don’t see me locking myself up. I still get out and live my life. I’m just--”

“Careful. Yeah, I know,” I finished. Then I found myself asking, “Do you ever wonder if it’s really considered living? If you have to be so careful all the time, I mean.”

“I don’t know. Can you consider your lifestyle living?”

“I sit at home wrapped up in my favorite blanket, eating Flamin Hots, and playing Overwatch…” I shrugged sarcastically, but then remembered that Clara couldn’t see me. “It’s pretty cozy living.”

Clara said, “Fair enough,” but her voice was distant in a way to let me know that she had her head turned for some reason. I figured she was probably checking on her dog, Pretzel, but I was wrong.

“Ooh, it’s almost time for me to leave for work,” said Clara, “Whatever choice you make, be sure not to overwork yourself.”

That sentiment washed away the remaining traces of irritation I had built up from her earlier statements. “Thanks,” I told her, “I love you, stay safe.”

“I love you, too, hon. Be safe, yourself.”

A beep signaled the end of our call.

I sighed and stuffed my face with a few handfuls of chips, hoping the spice would give me the moxie I needed for what I was planning to do.

I stood up from my desktop to wash my hands, because licking off the dust never did a good enough job.

When I stepped out of my throne of a swivel chair, I noticed how the blanket held my shape like a cocoon before it realized I wasn’t there and began to deflate.

I padded my way to the bathroom and flicked the light on with the back of my wrist.

In the mirror, the light felt no shame showing off the dark acne scars leftover from my teen years or the fuzzy patches of hair where I needed to add moisture.

My appearance would definitely rile up those mosquitos.

As I lathered up, I thought about those videos of large groups of brown-skinned people sitting in normal mosquito nets surrounded by signs saying, “Just because they don’t bite EVERYBODY doesn’t mean they’re not a REAL THREAT” and “You wanted to prevent MALARIA and EBOLA, but not DEATH BY BULLET MOSQUITOS?”. I thought about how I probably didn’t have the bravery to do that. I thought about how my wound up nerves would cause me to explode the minute some entitled Tik Tok user threw a cup of ice water at us while calling us “delusional snowflakes” or whatever those kids say.

On my way to dry my hands, I thought about my last phone call with my mom, where I told her about the Bullet Mosquito protests.

" _ They're just chasing their tails. Ain’t nobody gonna listen to them _ ," she dismissed, " _ And niggers ain't ready to live as freely as the white folk. Sooner they don't have to fear the mosquitoes no’mo’, sooner they'll be runnin down the streets with they pants sagging playing that ghetto rap shit... _ "

Her words made me wonder if there was another virus in the hidden, one that made the older people of color hate their melanin. Maybe there was an undiscovered species of bedbugs in the retirement homes injecting our parents with hatred and sucking out the pride for their heritage. Was that the fate that awaited me if I made it to Mama's age? Would anyone even notice my old, aging body in this apartment and transport me to a retirement home? Or would my bed be my casket?

Looking at my bed now, with the pajamas I lounged around in strewn about it, I didn’t find it too unappealing.

I turned to look at my closet, which remained untouched since I haven’t had a reason to leave in years, but all my nice-looking outfits looked like targets to me now. Those shorts and tank tops were easy bait for anyone infected with the XY virus. Something gray and baggy was what I needed. It would be even better if they were mismatching or clashed with each other greatly.

Then I looked at my broken glasses set on the dresser. Maybe if I wore them, I’d look even more unappealing. Then again, do infected people even care about personal tastes, or do they just fly into an indiscriminate bloodlust?

I checked my purse: wallet, keys, mace, taser, ancient chapstick, and gum that’s probably gone sour with age. All that was missing was my phone in the living room.

I can’t say for sure what happened between me opening my door and me stepping out into the summer heat. It was like a blur, like someone had pushed fast forward on my life while I was only half conscious. My head buzzed the entire time, and my legs were wobbling from both nerves and the sudden increase in movement.

As my head began to clear and the buzzing drained like water in a sink, I was able to take in the situation more clearly. I wish I hadn’t. I wish that buzzing stayed because it was like the buzz from liquid courage. Now my mind was screaming at me for not favoring self-preservation and saying that this was all a huge mistake. It was saying that the minute I left the safety of my apartment’s security cameras, I was doomed to the dangers of this world I lived in.

My chest was so tight it felt like I might have burst at the seams. I could barely even lift one foot up high enough to begin turning around. I felt a presence coming and my breathing quickened. I didn’t want to make eye contact with whomever was coming my way, but what I saw didn’t frighten me.

It was an old woman, slightly hunched over with age and soft like a grandmother. Her bright pink and green floral turban and cedar wood skin put a calm in my heart that I hadn’t felt since I was a child.

I didn’t even realize she was holding up a sign until she was almost right next to me.

“Famine led to pestilence, which led to death. Open your eyes before war comes,” it read.

Next to famine was a picture of a partially colored heart. Next to pestilence were an XY and cartoon of a Bullet Mosquito. Death and war didn’t need an image.

“I don’t understand the famine one,” I said without even properly addressing her.

Regardless, the old woman looked at me and touched her heart. “When the heart lacks nourishment, hatred breeds like parasites,” she said, “Nature didn’t intend for these creatures to exist. They were born from empty hearts.”

I gulped, realizing that a thick lump had built in my throat. “Do you think it can ever change?”

The old woman smiled. “Oh honey, of course I do,” she said, “That’s why I still carry this sign.”


End file.
